


The Hour

by aisle_one



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Anal Fingering, Bullying, Dubious Consent, Felching, First Time, Frottage, Id Fic, M/M, Nipple Play, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Past Child Abuse, Rentboy Q, Rimming, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-29
Updated: 2016-01-14
Packaged: 2018-04-28 17:35:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5099600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aisle_one/pseuds/aisle_one
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond pays for a virgin and gets more than he bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The boy was slight and delicate. Only slightly bruised, Peter - the brothel owner - guaranteed. 

“A wide-eyed thing, shivering in the rain when I found him,” he declared. Plucked off the streets and no doubt seduced with promises of food, shelter, sanctuary - basic necessities. But the boy must have been hungry for them. Peter had an eye for his sort. Recent runaways from shoddy homes. Harassed. Bullied. Neglected - the typical thing. This one, too. With his sad, haunted eyes fit to the template, surely arrived in London accustomed to scarcity and starved for a bit of kindness. 

Unasked, Peter produced the boy’s bus ticket, waved it in Bond’s face, and pointed at the date. “You see there? Barely a week old,” he said, a wide grin on his fleshy face. “Like a newborn colt, all gangly limbs and hardly used.” 

“How used?” Bond asked. It was his threshold query before every transaction.

Peter frowned and swatted at the air as if insulted. “Very little. Perhaps not at all.” He leaned closer to Bond. “We checked. Like this - ” and he thrust his middle finger up, jabbing. “The boy screamed. Then fainted.” Peter chuckled at the memory. Bond frowned. He didn’t care for unnecessary cruelty. Still, the poorly wrought evidence stirred his curiosity.

“What’s his name?”

“You can call him Q.” The proud, paternal grin returned. “For quality, Mr. Bond. The very best for you.”

_

 

Mr. Bond sat on the bed reclined on his elbows. He wasn’t bad looking. The opposite, in fact. Blond, blue-eyed, and fit. He smelled nice, too. Expensive. Like the perfumed strips Q would sniff from inside thick magazines before pilfering them behind the cashier’s back. It could be worse. He could be Geoffrey. Or that thick-necked man that paid Peter to brutalize Jonny the other night. This one might have paid for Q’s innocence, but he had no interest beyond spoiling it - so Peter said. No matter. Q was stuck by the door, paralyzed by the enormity of the circumstance.

Not for the first time, Q cursed himself. Smart at mathematics, brilliant in science. A certified genius - his IQ confirmed it. But hadn’t that always been the problem? Clever in the classroom, useless in life. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_ \- as Geoffrey liked to call him instead of by his name. _Stupid cunt, get me a beer. Shut your face, you stupid little poof._ Stupid is what got him here. But - a shiver went down Q’s spine. It could be worse. It had been worse.

Q got hold of his nerves and managed the brief distance to Mr. Bond, but stopped short several feet from him, uncertain how to proceed. He eyed the bed. Should he sit on it, next to Mr. Bond? Clamber up and lay down? On his back? Or should he be on his stomach? Do as Mr. Bond likes, Peter had instructed, but the man hardly came with a manual. 

“Wh-where,” Q stuttered, unable to keep his voice from shaking, “where would you like me? Sir?”

Mr. Bond gestured to the gap between his spread legs. “Right here would be a good start.”

Q blushed. Of course. That’s what he wanted. And, of course, Q hadn’t ever, though Geoffrey had tried to - he shook his head, shook away the memory. Enough of that, Q scolded himself. He had a job to do. 

What was it that Jonny told him yesterday? His mind raced to remember. Watch your teeth. Breathe through your nose. Try not to gag - but right then he almost did. Panic was making him nauseous. Was he really about to - yes, yes he was. He had to. So before his nerves could get the better of him again, Q lurched forward and wedged himself between Mr. Bond’s knees. He sank down, his heart hammering, though before he hit the floor, hands hooked under his armpits and hoisted him up. 

Back on his feet, Q looked down at Mr. Bond in surprise. He smiled. It was unexpectedly sweet. “I didn’t mean that, though ” - a thumb brushed over his lips - “I’m certain I’d enjoy it.” What a relief. Q let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Let me look for a moment.” Mr. Bond’s eyes swept over him and lingered on his middle. He clasped Q by the waist. “What a tiny thing you are,” he murmured, stretching his fingers. They didn’t meet - but almost. A hand slid up his side and danced lightly over his chest. “I wonder,” Mr. Bond said, “has anyone ever touched you here?” Was he serious? Surely the man didn’t think he was pure as the driven snow. Not that pure. Certainly his experience was limited - back room gropings in a club mostly, a furious wank once in an alley. But he was hardly a Disney princess.

“Sir,” Q said. “I - I don't mean to disappoint, but - ”

“Are you saying Peter lied?” Mr. Bond raised an eyebrow.

“No! Not at all. I’m a - a . . . ” Q couldn’t finish the sentence. He hated that word. It made him feel like such a failure. “Well, it’s true that I’ve not. Done a lot, I mean. But not that I’ve not ever been - ” Q rubbed a hand over his chest to demonstrate.

“I see,” Mr. Bond said, clearly trying not to laugh and failing miserably. Q wasn't sure what it was he'd said that was so funny, and he would have normally been embarrassed about it. But Mr. Bond didn't seem to be laughing at him. Rather, he seemed pleased. And he had a strangely affectionate look on his face. It helped Q to relax a little. “You’ve done a little petting, then?” Q nodded. “What about this?” He pulled Q closer. “Has anyone ever - ” he leaned in, his face inches apart from Q’s chest and he -

“Oh!” Q gasped and jerked back. He stared at Mr. Bond in shock. He had licked Q. On his nipple. “Th-that was - ” Weird. Weirdly incredible. It sent a jolt of pleasure straight to his cock.

“You like it?” Mr. Bond asked, but didn’t wait for an answer. He leaned in again and licked Q. Round and round his tongue went, dampening Q’s shirt, and the mixed sensations of heat and wet, and the friction between fabric and that wickedly flexible organ, were unbearably good. Q’s eyes fluttered shut. His toes curled in his trainers. Barely conscious of it, his hand crept up and gripped Mr. Bond behind his head. When Mr. Bond switched to the other nipple, flicking his tongue, lapping at the hardened nub, the sensations were fresh and surprising, and he clutched tighter. 

Good lord, Q was hard. He ached from it. And now Mr. Bond was sucking on him, softly, then hard, fiercely hard - causing Q to buck against him - then he licked the sting away. Q was going to come. He was certain of it. Though just as he teetered at the very edge of an inevitable climax, Mr. Bond stopped. Q whimpered pathetically. Was Mr. Bond trying to kill him?

“Just a moment, darling,” Mr. Bond said, running a soothing hand up Q’s arm. In a single, swift move, he had Q’s shirt off. “Better don’t you think?” And Q couldn’t help but agree when Mr. Bond returned his mouth to Q’s nipple and _dear god_ Q was certain, absolutely this time, that he was going to die from this. 

_

 

The boy was going to be the death of him. Lithe and pale, inches and inches of smooth, unmarred skin, so unlike Bond, and he was so very, very sensitive. Bond could toy with him for hours, lapping at his nipples, delighting at the feel of them hard and aroused against his tongue. But the clock above the bed told him the hour was almost over. So soon. 

It was small torture to pull away from Q, even for the brief moment it took to pull off his own shirt, but the payoff - skin against skin - was sweet. Q was feverishly hot, his skin slippery where a thin layer of sweat formed. Bond wanted him on his back, under him, the slide of that silky flesh against his. But there would be no fucking tonight. Not until Bond could savor it and take the boy apart as slow as he liked. 

_

 

Oh, oh. Mr. Bond found a sensitive spot behind his ear and was sucking on it furiously. It was driving Q mad. That mouth. Those hands. Branding him everywhere they touched. Dimly, Q reminded himself that he was being paid for this. Nothing more than a piece of meat for this man to use and do with as he pleased, and it was shameful to enjoy it. But then Mr. Bond snapped his hips, ground against Q's, and Q saw stars. He forgot his shame, abandoned rational thought, and completely surrendered.

He was heavy, blanketed over Q, his torso thick and muscular. Beneath him, Q was dwarfed. He might have felt insignificant, too, smothered, but Mr. Bond was lavishing, adoring, touches not the least bit tentative, but careful. Q wanted it to go and on, even as his arousal soared, Mr. Bond coaxing him along - “that’s it,” he whispered. A light kiss to Q’s cheek. “Just like that. Beautiful Q. Let me see you, love. Give it to me now.” And so Q did.

_

 

He cried out when he came. Elbows flexed inward. Knobby knees snapped up. Like a shivering, wounded bird armoring itself with its fragile wings. And that was it. That was the moment Bond’s world shifted, tilted on its axis, and he was irrevocably, mercilessly ruined.

In the end, Bond kissed him. His eyes. His cheeks. His trembling mouth. The last lingered beyond the hour, and at two hundred pounds an hour, three pounds plus a minute, it cost him a pretty penny. But it was worth it. Q was worth it.


	2. Chapter 2

Jonny was still up when Q got back to their room. A folded, frayed towel was on Q’s bed. He smiled a thanks at Jonny. It was no small token of friendship. Peter was a stingy bastard and charged a fee for each item he loaned when the boys ran out of their own stock or their things got too worn for continued use. Towels and sheets. Toothbrushes and soap. Toilet paper. If the boy couldn’t afford an entire roll, Peter charged by the sheet, or else he counted it as a deficit against the boy, who had no choice but to pay it back with labor. Servicing men in perpetuity. It was a wicked cycle. By the time Peter took his cut for room and board, the boys had little left for themselves. Already, Q was three days behind on rent and meals, but that was a drop in the bucket compared to what Jonny owed. 

“He rough you up much?” Jonny asked, sat on the bed across from Q’s, his spindly legs folded to his chest. His eyes twitched as he rocked back and forth. Meth - no doubt courtesy of Peter. It explained why he was still awake. Soon, he would be pacing a hole in the floor.

Q shook his head. “He was . . . ” he faltered. “Nice. He was nice to me.” And suddenly Q’s eyes pricked with tears and he was overcome with emotion he couldn't name. An ache bloomed in his chest. For so long Q had known only hostility or disdain - since his mum died, as if she had taken with her all the light in Q’s life. He didn’t quite know how to handle this, this sudden bounty of - of people who seemed to care about him. Jonny and his concern. Mr. Bond, who had paid to pleasure Q instead of the other way around, or so it seemed.

“Good. You’re lucky,“ Jonny said. “I’m glad he didn’t hurt you.” Q could tell he was sincere about it, although his eyes slid away and he tucked his chin down. The movement revealed the welt high on his neck, still red and angry days later. At the sight of it, Q was hit by a wave of guilt. Jonny was right. He was lucky. Worst yet, he felt it - at Jonny’s expense. Q fiddled with the tattered towel, feeling wholly undeserving of it. It wasn't fair that the world could be so uneven.

“What’d you do?”

Q felt his face grow hot. “Stuff.” 

Jonny looked up and smirked. “What kind of stuff?”

 _The technical term for it is nipple stimulation._ But Q wasn’t about to say that. Instead, he said, "A bit of fondling.” And right then Q remembered exactly why he was still a virgin. Fondling, for fuck’s sake. Who said that? Other than a throwback prude from the Victorian era? He decided to give it another go and puffed his chest like a prancing peacock. “What I meant was - he sucked my tit.” Then he promptly burst out laughing.

Jonny shook his head, grinning. “It doesn't suit you, mate.”

“Didn’t think so.”

Jonny rocked back against the wall and chewed his lip. He got a thoughtful look on his face. “How was it?”

“Fine,” Q said. Which was the understatement of Q’s life. Mind-blowing would have been the more accurate description. But he didn't want to say more, afraid he’d sound like he was gloating if he told the truth, or that he’d make Jonny feel bad again. “It was all right.”

“Just all right?” Jonny’s eyes bore into Q, shrewd even through the meth haze. “You’ve been fingering that mark on your neck this entire time.” 

Shit, he was? Q dropped his arm. Caught out before Q caught himself. How pathetic. What an amateur he kept proving to be.

“Nice souvenir, by the way - matches the one on your collarbone."

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“What for?” Jonny surged up, restless fingers drumming against his sides. “You should enjoy it while you can.” He walked to the cupboard and opened it. Closed it. Opened it again. He marched to the bureau, pulled out a drawer, and emptied the contents onto the floor. He started muttering something unintelligible and Q knew he was gone for the night.

Q’s hand crept back up and returned to the mark on his neck. The memory of Mr. Bond’s mouth there (hot) and his tongue (slick, wet) made Q shiver. His fingers skated down to his chest, skimmed over the nipple Mr. Bond favored until Q got weak in the knees. His cock thickened. Maybe Jonny was right.

Q tossed the towel over his shoulder and headed for the bathroom. 

_

 

Q woke feeling constricted. He tossed the covers off and was momentarily confused. He was wearing jeans, not pajamas. Why? The hazy fog of sleep lifted and he abruptly remembered. He sat up, tilted his hip, and felt his back pocket. Finding the bulge still there, he sighed in relief. He rubbed his eyes. He was alone. Jonny’s bed showed no signs that he had slept in it. The smell of gruel wafted in from the kitchen. Q hoped he was there, if not eating then at least tempered down, helping with the cooking or washing dishes. A focused activity helped ease him down from the high, and he was sure to crash by this afternoon.

As expected, the floor was a mess. As if a washer had exploded and propelled the clothing from it like shrapnel. In a corner, the bureau’s empty drawers were stacked in a haphazard heap. Q picked through a pile of pants and socks, found a black pair, and considered it. 

Mr. Bond had refused to let him go even after the hour had passed. He had Q in a mighty hug and was stroking his hair when a hand slid down Q’s back and under the tail of his shirt. It cupped his arse, and Q figured it for a good-bye squeeze. It was - and more. Furtive fingers slipped a pair of twenty-pound notes in his back pocket, unseen by the camera inside the clock. Against Q’s lips, in between vehement kisses, he had whispered, “Keep it a secret.” 

He would have to. Peter had a strict no tips rule, and if he found out about Mr. Bond’s charity, the least of it would be him seizing the money. 

The socks wouldn't do. Not with Jonny’s habit. Q surveyed the room. He could tape it under the bureau. Or there might be a niche in the wall, inside the cupboard, or a loose floorboard. But what if Q needed it right away? He could keep it on him, inside his pants, or sewn into his jeans. And as quick as the idea came, Q discarded it. Illogical. And dangerous. The job required him to be out of his clothes more than in them, after all. 

A travel size lotion on the nightstand caught his attention. It was a generic brand, packaged in an opaque white bottle. The sales associate was busy reorienting a display Q had knocked to the floor when Q pocketed it. It was nearly empty.

In a show Q had seen, a prostitute hid in a tube of lipstick a roll of film she later used as blackmail. The bottle of lotion wouldn’t be as sexy or as clever, but it would serve the purpose. Hide the money in plain sight and have it handy in a hurry. Or the second best alternative - inside the nightstand, in the only drawer Jonny left alone. It rolled to a stop next to Q’s eyeglass case.

_

 

Q was spooning gruel into a bowl - a move ripped from the pages of Oliver Twist - when the miserly man himself grabbed him by the wrist and yanked the ladle out of his hand. “Not for you,” Peter said, frowning.

“What?” Q said, startled. “Why?” The gruel was nasty, but he was starving.

Peter shoved him away from the stove and pointed at a lumpy paper bag on the counter. “That’s yours.”

Q opened the bag. A bacon sandwich. The smell of it assaulted his nostrils and his stomach growled. Puzzled, Q asked, “Are you changing the menu?” At Peter’s glare, he was quick to add, “Not that I’m complaining. In fact - ”

“Not changing the menu, you stupid boy.” He turned his back to Q and focused on stirring the ladle in the thick gruel. “Bond wants to fatten you up.” He peered over his shoulder, looked Q up and down. “But not too much.”

“Mr. Bond?” Q was at a loss for more words.

“ _Da._ He gave me money for your meals - today, tomorrow, the day after. Good for one week at least.” 

Peter turned off the stove and removed the pot of gruel. He would let it cool before putting it in the refrigerator. Portioned out to Peter’s specifications, the batch should feed the house for severals days. In an hour, the kitchen would fill again with the boys tasked for boiling the potatoes and baking the bread. Peter would prepare the gravy himself, an old family recipe thinned to a watery version. The bread would be for lunch, the potatoes for dinner. Gravy on the side at each meal.

Except for Q. Q would be feasting.

_

 

Jonny stumbled into the room late in the afternoon, scratching furiously at his arms. Q made him eat - half of the bacon sandwich - before he settled back into bed and went to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Bond didn’t think about the boy. As bullets whizzed by, or when a knife nearly clipped his ear - not then. Not as he plummeted in a rigged elevator at hyper speed, calculating for that last minute leap to safety.

He didn’t think about Q during the hours long stakeout (collect the intel). Or as his finger hovered over a trigger (dispose of the target).

A machine programmed for efficiency, Bond stripped to the essential on assignment. Sympathy he used as a weapon. Trust was exploited as a means to an end. The mission’s success required it. His survival depended on it. 

Casualties were unavoidable and they didn't leave Bond unscathed, but he had few regrets. The occasional nightmare - a brutal death at his hands, or one he was too late to prevent. The worst haunted him with the possibility of another life. But ghosts manipulated memories and by morning they dissipated. If not by then, they were drowned in drink.

Bond preferred whisky. 

After the flight attendant refilled his cup, he resumed staring out the window of the airplane. He was signed off until landing. Until then, he owned his time. 

The whisky burned pleasantly going down. It warmed his rigid limbs, seeped a languid yielding into his shoulders. His neck cracked on a bend and he groaned in satisfaction. His mind was submitting, slowly relaxing to allow his indulgence. 

Soft, petal lips. Hesitant hands. Clumsy with inexperience - and intoxicating for the very reason.

_

 

When Q opened the door to the room reserved for important clients, Q expected to see the same man from the previous two nights. The man didn’t come for the sex. He came to be humiliated. Trussed up in leather, collar snapped on his neck. He would be kneeled on the floor, back whipped red, when Q arrived to service him - the closing act. 

Q did not touch him and he was forbidden to touch Q - an arrangement made on Mr. Bond’s orders, backed by a generous fund. It worked well for Q, who didn't have the stomach for inflicting pain. He barely had it for what he was tasked to do: spew obscenities at the man while he rubbed his face against Q’s booted feet and purred like a kitten.

It was a surprise, then, when Q found it was Mr. Bond instead who was waiting for him. He was pacing by the bed. At the sight of him, joy burst in Q's chest. 

"You're ba - " Q started to say, but didn't finish. Couldn't.

Upon seeing Q, Mr. Bond's eyes narrowed. In three long strides, he crossed the room, scooped Q up by the arse, and slammed him against the closed door.

_

 

Skin. Bond needed skin. Hot and sleek and quivering. He tore Q’s shirt - vowed to replace it later. There was the yellowing bruise on Q’s collarbone. It called to him. He fixed his mouth on it. Replaced it with a fresh one.

_

 

Q couldn’t think. Had no time to process what was happening. Frantic hands were on him. Under him. Inside his clothes. Flicking at his nipples. A pinch. He bucked. And that mouth - scorching on his clavicle. It slid a wet trail down his bared chest and closed over a hardened nub. A hand snaked into his pants. 

Q howled. A tongue slithered past his chattering teeth and abruptly muted him. The hand in his pants twisted. His eyes rolled back. He came spasming. His head banged against the door. Mr. Bond followed, rutting against him. 

Minutes passed as their hearts slowed. Bond stroked his cheeks.

"Hi there," Mr. Bond said.

"Hello," Q replied on an exhale.

_

 

Bond gently untangled from Q. Fresh marks dotted his neck and chest, and his lips were swollen, but he didn't appear to be hurt. Bond had not expected his reaction, at the mere sight of the boy, that he would be swept away by desire - by greed - and so easily lose control. A slight troubling. But not enough to keep his attention away from Q. He watched as the boy gathered the tattered halves of his shirt to cover himself. A pity to lose sight of that beautiful flesh, more so for Bond's imprint on it, but Bond didn't comment or stop the boy. His virginal bashfulness was charming, and his hunger for the boy, hardly satiated by their frantic rutting, flared in response. 

He was wearing glasses. Bond fingered the frame. "You didn’t have these on last time." 

"I lost a contact." Q blinked nervously. "I don’t have replacements. Are they all right?"

After a long, considering look, Bond said, "I think I prefer you in them." He took Q's hand and led him to the bed. On the edge of it, he perched, then guided Q onto his lap. "Has Peter been treating you well?"

"Yes, sir." He smiled. A dimple appeared. Sweet.

"What did you have for dinner last night?"

"Roast with carrots and peas."

"And for breakfast this morning?

"A bacon sandwich."

"Lunch?"

"Fish and chips."

Bond pinched Q’s belly. The boy squeaked. "Yet still skinny as a twig." Bond tugged him in for a kiss. "Camera," he whispered, to remind Q that it picked up regular sounds. "Did you hide the money?" Q nodded and opened his mouth dutifully to Bond’s probing tongue. A thorough debauching of it later, Bond pulled away. "Good."

Q’s brow creased.

"All right?" Bond asked. 

"Just a bit - " He shifted on Bond’s lap. "Sticky."

"If we were naked and under the covers, this would be called pillow talk." 

Q’s face reddened. "But I wouldn’t be lying in the wet spot."

Bond laughed. "Fair enough." He nudged Q to his feet, then rose after him. "So let’s get naked."

_

 

What Mr. Bond meant by "us" was "Q." As in - let’s get Q naked. He hoped Mr. Bond would follow before the hour was over. If his muscular arms and sculpted chest were anything to go by, the rest of him must be just as impressive. Then again - Q peered down at his scrawny frame - maybe he didn't want Mr. Bond to follow. 

He made Q remove his shirt first. His jeans went next. Then his pants. The socks he was allowed to keep. The floor was raggedy in places and Mr. Bond didn’t want his bare feet catching on splintered wood. It was also a bit chilly, though Q doubted his socks would be much help if the rest of him was starkers. At Mr. Bond’s direction, Q got on the bed and laid on his back. 

This moment had long played in a loop in Q's mind. His first exposing. The reveal of his skinny body to a pair of eyes other than his. What would Mr. Bond think? He had already seen Q's thin, bird-like chest. His prominent ribs. But what about the rest of him? His bony legs. The untrimmed nest of coarse hair between them. His unimpressive cock. Unwrapped, he felt less like a gift than a joke, and his arms raised reflexively to hide himself.

"No," Mr. Bond said. He caught Q’s wrists and tugged his arms back down. Q fought the impulse to resist. "You're beautiful."

"I’m not." Q refused to believe it, even if the expression on Mr. Bond’s face said differently. Q could barely stand his reflection in the mirror and when he realized that Mr. Bond was scrutinizing his cock - the goop clinging to the tip of it - Q was mortified. "I can take a quick shower." But just as he readied to bolt, hands clamped on his hips in a vice-like grip and held him in place.

"Stay."

"But I’m dirty."

"I’ll clean you up." Mr. Bond slid down the bed.

Q propped up to see what he was doing. "What do you mean - " Mr. Bond's head buried between his legs.

_Oh my god._

Q flopped back down and covered his face. He couldn't be. But a broad, sweeping lick inside the crease of his thigh, at the white smear there, begged to differ - yes, yes he was. It was the filthiest thing Q never imagined. Had not the inkling to. How could he? Not in Q's wildest fantasies did he ever think that men did this. That a man would want to. And Mr. Bond was doing it to him. And thoroughly. Every drop of his come was accounted for as that agile tongue slithered across his pelvis, nudged in the humid pocket behind his balls, and wormed through his bush. 

A series of light, flickering licks tickled the slit of his cock. At a particularly probing one, Q arched off the bed and dug his heels into the mattress. Is this why cats were always licking themselves? A hysterical laugh threatened at the ridiculous thought. Instead, a gasp escaped. His cock had been devoured. Disappeared inside Mr. Bond's mouth.

_

 

The boy's sleeping little prick, recovered from its earlier tryst, had begun to stir from Bond's licking. It wasn't near full mast, but Bond knew it would take little to get it there. He wanted it in his mouth. All of it. The entire, shriveled thing. Wanted to feel it unfurl. To plump in the hollow of his cheek. Swell to its full girth. And when it got too big to keep in his mouth, Bond let the shaft slide out, but clung to the tip. With careful, practiced lips, he peeled back the foreskin and suckled it.

-

Q stared at the ceiling. He was finding it difficult to breathe. This he had known about. Heard the stories. Read articles in dirty magazines. But none of it compared, didn't do it justice, this - hot, hot, wet, tight. So tight. He bit into his fist.

He was going insane. It was intensely good. So, so good. And yet too much. His entire body was raw and burning, and he kept flinching at the lightest touch. Q wasn't certain he could bear more. When Mr. Bond's hand began wandering toward his prick, Q grabbed his wrist. "N-no. No more," he said, shaking his head furiously. 

Mr. Bond stared at him. "You want me to stop?"

Yes. No. Q didn't know. He was the hardest he had ever been in his life. And it hurt. It was the worst. The best. Maybe just a bit more . . . His hand slipped from Mr. Bond's wrist. "I want to, w-want you to, I - " Mr. Bond saved him from making the decision. He bowed his head, wolfed down Q's prick, and sucked. 

He sucked and sucked and sucked.

Q came with a shout, thighs clamped around Mr. Bond's head. Shaking and trembling. Tremors rolled up and down his body. Even his eyelashes shivered. It wouldn't stop - couldn't. Q tried. But the quiver in his limbs refused to quit. His rattling teeth couldn't be settled. He was completely undone. Unmoored. Untethered. It frightened him. A sob was rising in his throat. 

Muscular arms slid under Q's back. He was hauled up and crushed to a solid body. And he clung. Tight. So tight.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the tags - potential triggers and a lot of angst in this chapter.
> 
> Thank you, all, who have been reading, commenting, and leaving kudos.

It started as an exercise to help Q get past his shyness and accustomed to seeing Bond naked. 

The night before, Bond had noticed the boy curiously eyeing a scar on his chest, and when Q realized it, he flushed and looked away. 

“That’s from Thailand, when I was on holiday,” Bond had said, and waited until Q braved turning his gaze back on him. He pointed at the puckered flesh to draw the boy’s eyes there. “Got it from a bar fight. I was drunk - obviously. Bartender told me to leave. I didn’t. The usual happened - screaming, a fist fight, broken bottles. And a piece got stuck there. The others - ” he swept a hand down his body, gesturing at the marks and scabs in various stages of fading - “have more original stories.”

But they had only a few minutes left in the hour and none of it were meant for storytelling. Instead, Bond held the boy, while the boy pressed kisses to his face. Closed-mouthed, butterfly kisses. It had become a habit before they parted.

Tonight, they had time.

Bond undressed the boy, then undressed himself. Then they laid on the bed, entwined.

_

 

A diagonal line, thin and clean, cut over Q’s knee. 

“That’s old,” Q said, smiling. “Like - really, really old. Mum was teaching me how to ride a bike and I crashed into a fence. Sliced my knee on a scraggly metal wire. I think it hurt. It must have hurt, but I can’t remember. Mum was worse off than me. She wouldn’t stop crying while she fixed me up.”

She died when Q was nine. Car accident. He never knew his father. 

Q’s voice broke while telling it. Bond wiped away his tears.

_

 

“I’ve got one, too,” Bond said, pointing at a faint scab on his calf. “Got too cocky for my own good and went too fast on a turn. Caught my leg in the wheels as I went down.”

It was Bond’s father who taught him. His parents died in a mountain climbing accident. Bond was eleven. 

Bond’s voice didn’t break while telling it. It didn’t waiver. Didn’t flinch. And he hadn’t cried in years. Still, Q lifted Bond's hand to his face and nuzzled it against his cheek.

_

 

It was easy to disappear, to recede into the background until Q was barely a print of his own shadow. After his mum died and a court ordered Q to continue living with Geoffrey, it had become necessary, a matter of survival. But Geoffrey couldn't be blamed for the blemish that had once been a cavity of flesh torn from a dragging along a brick wall - not on Q’s hip.

At school, it had been just as easy to go ignored - or rather, unseen. Q spoke only when spoken to, didn't make eye contact, floated through halls and from class to class like a passing cloud, there then gone. Which is why it had been a surprise, a shock really, that afternoon in the boys's changing room. Q was switching out of his track uniform, hiking up his jeans, when a burly boy passed and bumped into him. Q lost his balance and lurched, nearly cracked his head on the wooden bench he had been straddling. But a conciliatory smile readied on his lips. As he prepared to flash it, the burly boy hissed, “Poofter." Q’s heart stuttered. How did he know?

Q had been on his way to the library, after school. At the sound of footsteps too close on his heels, the hair on Q’s neck stood on end. He hurried. The steps quickened. Q’s heart thumped in his chest when a voice yelled, “Hey, fagot!” Raucous laughter followed. And Q bolted. Two blocks from the library, they caught him. Yanked him by the collar of his shirt into an alley - that had caused the skid mark on his flesh. 

They didn’t use their fists, clever enough not to leave evidence, in case Q told. Not that he would have. Q knew better, too, what would’ve happened if word got around about what he was. Instead, they had pushed and shoved, called Q names, threatened. Spat on him.

By the time Q finished recalling the incident, he was curled into a ball. Bond spooned behind him, stroked his quaking shoulders, and said, “You’re not disgusting. You’re beautiful. And lovely. The loveliest thing I’ve ever known.” He said it again and again and again.

_

 

Death halved Bond's life - before and after, light and dark. He went from invested to apathetic, and no one dared to bully Bond in school. Whereas Q had learned to disappear in plain sight, Bond had learned simply to disappear.

The three parallel lines high on his back resulted from a knuckle duster that had connected on the second swing - the first had barely missed his head. 

Bond had no business being in the fight, or interrupting a common mugging. He wasn’t even particularly concerned about the targeted victim - a middle-aged man who had huddled into his coat, trying his best to shrink into it, while Bond worked out his attackers. He had been itching for a fight. Any fight. The mugging he had stumbled on was convenient.

The rage propelled him. It coursed through his veins like a stimulant. Acid on cocaine on crack on methamphetamine. He shot a kick to the stomach. A lowly punch to the groin - cheap shot, so what? 

He barely felt the jabs landing on him. Except for the knuckle duster. That pain was distinct. Bond remembered it keenly. A blunt, rocketing hurt. But it served only to spike his anger, feed the beast Bond had unleashed. His mind blanked and he charged.

_

 

Q turned in Bond’s arms to face him. His wide, green eyes searched Bond’s face. “Have you ever killed a man?”

Bond nodded.

“In self defense?”

“Yes.”  

"Only in self defense?”

“No.”

Q tucked his head under Bond’s chin and wrapped his skinny arms around Bond. “I understand.”

_

 

Q had wondered - what would it be like to be the arbiter of whether one lived or died? How would it feel to have that kind of power?

“You wouldn’t hurt a fly,” Bond said, convinced that it was unequivocally true.

Maybe not. Maybe. Regardless, Q did have fantasies, and Geoffrey played a recurring role in them.

Q had thought about poisoning him, slipping something tasteless, untraceable, and fast acting, in an open can of beer. The idea had been conceived while Q was lying on the bathroom floor, doubled over in pain, stomach cramped from the burned food Peter had forced him to swallow, sour smelling hand clamped over Q’s mouth to keep it down.

It had been an accident. Q hadn’t meant to leave the stew simmering until the contents turned to ash. He had been reading, lost in a book. Geoffrey didn’t _give two shits about the fucking “accident,”_ and Q never again forgot food cooking on a stove or in the over, or left either unattended. 

Q also never got lost in a book again, or delayed answering Geoffrey when he asked a question, or missed the bus to school, or forgot his backpack in the library, or showered longer than five minutes, or left toothpaste stains in the sink after brushing, or left the door unlocked even if Q stepped out only to check the mail.

“Did it make a difference?” Bond asked.

“I’m not sure.”

And Q also wasn’t sure why he had been so stupid and careless that afternoon he left a dirty magazine flipped open on his bed, with his bedroom door gaping. He had shot to the bathroom for a clean-up. The trip was quick, under five minutes - his watch confirmed it. It didn’t matter. When he returned, Geoffrey was sitting on his bed, flipping lazily through the magazine and smoking a cigarette. 

“Is that how you got these?” Bond asked, fingers tracing a clumsy constellation of round, barely faded marks on Q’s lower back. 

Q nodded. 

_

 

Q also imagined: setting Geoffrey on fire, pushing him in front of an oncoming car, shoving him in front of a speeding train, throwing him down the stairs, clobbering him with a pan, jabbing his eyes with a pen, ripping into his throat with a wire cutter, or gouging it with a knife. The last had nearly happened.

The hilt of the cleaver fitted snugly in Q’s palm. He had stood over Geoffrey, arm swaying in indecision - neck or chest? Or his prick.

The man was passed out on his recliner, snoring, guaranteed not to wake from the pill Q had sneaked into his drink. The bastard deserved it. Q was sick and tired of his abuse. (Forced to his knees, head wrenched back.) And after what he had done . . . it was the last straw. (“Open your mouth, you little bitch.”) He deserved to die. (The zipper sounded loud going down.) To suffer. (He smelled crusty and unwashed.) Be forced to beg. (Q gagged, his vomit saving him.)

“The cut was shallow,” Q said, hand on his neck mimicking the slash he had made. “But it bled a lot. I couldn't do it, couldn’t finish. Didn’t really want to, to be honest. The blood freaked me out. And I didn’t - ” he swallowed and licked his lips “ - didn’t like what I had become. That I almost . . . I left after that. That night.”

_

 

Bond thought back to that first night with Q, after Bond had removed his shirt, and was greeted with what seemed like unmarred skin, seemingly so unlike his. It had been a marvel to Bond, a wonder that anyone could pass through life so untouched.

But Q hadn’t.

Bond pressed kisses to every knob along Q’s spine. Open-mouthed, butterfly kisses - and to the scab on his shoulder that had been a cut from a bottle cap thrown at him. The faint mark under his armpit that had been purple and throbbing after a shove collided him with the edge of a desk. To the barely faded cigarette burns, and those he took special care to treat gently, with reverence, as if they still hurt to touch.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to everyone who has been reading, leaving comments, and kudos. Much, much appreciated.

The sky was shifting from inky black to smoky gray, pinpricks of light spiking through the blanket of clouds, when Q abruptly woke to the loud bang of the door slamming open. Faintly, he registered the pungent odor of chemicals. He blinked and forced his sleep-heavy eyes to open. Absent his glasses, Q could only make out shapes, the impression of solid matter. Still, the outline of Jonny swaying on his feet just past the door was unmistakable.

The reality of him was disorienting. Q had been dreaming - arms snaked around his torso, lips mouthing his shoulder, and Mr. Bond plastered to his back fucking into him. 

They hadn’t actually gotten that far. But three nights ago, the last time Mr. Bond visited, he had lingered at Q’s arse. Cupping, molding, and squeezing. He even nipped at the buttocks, licked over and around each. Q got so lost in how good it felt that he was completely completely oblivious to his legs falling open, of the finger that slid between the cheeks. Until the press at his entrance. He had jolted at that. Panicked, a protest had bubbled up, but before it could sound to a _wait, not yet_ , a mouth descended on his nipple and clamped down hard at the same time a hand closed around his erect prick. A thumb breached. He came furiously. 

Q hadn’t been able to stop thinking - fantasizing - about it since, and want invaded his every dream. Like now, he kept waking in a similar state convinced that it had been real. Frantically, he reached for the blankets pooled at his feet. He had to cover himself and Mr. Bond. What was Jonny doing in their room anyway? Then Q realized, his grip on the worn fabric anchoring him to the present, that he was alone in bed. And definitely hard, his cock nearly pulsing from it. That part of the dream was true. He yanked the blanket over his hips and fumbled for his glasses on the nightstand. Q gave Jonny a once over. His teetering meant he would be crashing soon.

“Are you okay?” Q asked. He certainly looked it even high as a kite. The bruising had faded from his last session with the thick-necked man, who had such a violent go at him that it had left the poor boy unable to walk for nearly a week. But he hadn’t returned since. Q wondered if that, too, was Mr. Bond’s doing. Another fix-it for Q, who had tried his best to keep a stiff upper lip through the telling of it to Mr. Bond, though when he got to describing Jonny’s injuries, he failed miserably. By the end, he was sobbing.

Jonny managed a nod in his direction before stumbling the rest of the way to his bed. He curled up in it. A moment later, he was snoring. 

At last, Q was alone again - figuratively, at least. 

He caressed his swollen cock. Mr. Bond liked to suck the tip of it and lick it like a lollipop. He recalled the plush feel of those lips, the wet slide of his tongue. Up and down his hand rode his prick while he imagined it was Mr. Bond wanking him. He knew exactly where to clench and hold tight - there, close to the base. And at the slit, it always drove Q mad when he fingered it. He nudged his other hand under his arse, but his thumb didn’t feel right. It was too small. The twist to the left was off, not quite catching at the rim the way Mr. Bond’s did, immediately turning Q’s insides into jelly. What would it feel like to have Mr. Bond’s massive cock inside of him? At the thought, Q came like a freight truck crashing into a wall at full speed.

_

 

Freshly showered, Q padded back to his room barefoot, towel swaddled around his hips, and hair dripping wet. He changed quickly into a t-shirt and a new pair of jeans - the latter a recent gift from Mr. Bond - then took a gander over to Jonny. Q hovered over his recumbent form. He waved a hand over Jonny’s face, blew gently at his eyes. They twitched, but didn’t open. Satisfied that his roommate was still soundly asleep and wouldn’t wake for many more hours, Q returned to his side of the room and settled on the floor next to the nightstand. 

The checking had become ritual: at night before he slept; in the morning after he woke; and during the day between lunch and dinner - it was then that he counted his money. 

The bills unspooled from the bottles of lotion - totaling just shy of four hundred pounds, Q had been forced to upgrade to two. A month’s worth with Mr. Bond. If his generous charity continued at this rate, Q would have to find other hiding places - or he could run. That was the plan. An impossibility weeks ago, but he was at a surplus now, his debt to Peter settled. Yet another kindness from Mr. Bond. By next month, his stash was likely to double. The month after that, it might very well be at two thousand pounds. Enough for his own flat, or at least a share. He could start over. Find a job - something tech related like removing viruses and securing firewalls. A bit like the volunteering he did for the library. Q knew there was a lucrative market for that type of work. Maybe he’d even go to university and get a degree in computer science. 

Another two months. Not so far away. He had already begun the counting, marking up each day past in a private diary. He could bear it. He had born worse and for far longer. And he was certain Mr. Bond wanted it for him, that each pound he snuck Q was a nudge toward the way out. There was an easier way, of course. The simplest resolution was for Mr. Bond to buy his freedom and he seemed enamored enough with Q. Seemed to want him happy and safe. The man had enough money for it. So why didn’t he just do that? It wasn’t the first time the thought occurred to Q, nor was the anger that accompanied it unfamiliar. Though the instance it erupted, Q felt ashamed. He was being ungrateful. Mr. Bond didn’t owe him anything. He didn’t have to do anything for Q. Each bit of kindness was a gift and he should be thankful for them, not demanding more. But he couldn't help his confusion. It would be so easy, so easy for Mr. Bond to end his wretched stay at this place, so why didn’t he? 

_

 

It had become almost customary for Mr. Bond to ravish Q as soon as he walked into their room and bring him to a blinding orgasm slammed against the wall and his legs hitched around Mr. Bond’s waist. He did no such thing tonight. There was the preliminary petting, what seemed like ages spent on his nipples by a flickering tongue and clever fingers until Q could barely remember his name. His limbs turned to leaden weights and soon he was splayed naked on the bed, a shameless display. Mr. Bond was between his legs working his prick as Q had only fantasized that morning. He threw Q’s right leg over his shoulder.

“We’re going to do something different tonight,” Mr. Bond said and elaborated by thumbing Q’s entrance. At the touch, Q’s hips bucked. His heart began thumping wildly. He had to remind himself that he wanted this, had been aching for it. Yet his body seemed to have a different opinion on the matter as his cock deflated a touch anyway. It didn’t go without Mr. Bond’s notice. He soothed Q’s prick with a chaste peck. “It’ll be fine, little one. You’ll like it, you’ll see.”

Q couldn’t take his eyes off Mr. Bond lubing his thick fingers. They gleamed luridly.

The initial breach hurt. It was a fierce, sharp pain and Q couldn’t help the pitiful whine that escaped him. Breathing became suddenly difficult. His cock nearly shriveled down to its normal size.

“I c-can’t,” he panted. 

Mr. Bond immediately withdrew his finger. He kissed Q on the forehead and rubbed at the crease that had formed between his eyebrows. “You’ll wrinkle too soon if that keeps up,” he said. He studied Q. “I see you’ll need a bit more preparing.”

Q expected a return to petting or Mr. Bond sucking his cock back to full mast. What Q didn’t, couldn’t have contemplated for was Mr. Bond licking his hole.

Q’s knees shuttered closed - or tried to. Mr. Bond was quicker and stronger. He caught them and kept them pried apart. Mortified, Q exclaimed, “That’s dirty!”

“It isn’t,” Mr. Bond responded. And as if to prove the point, Mr. Bond licked a long, thick stripe directly over Q's entrance, making it quiver. 

Q's face got hot with embarassament. “B-but, you shouldn’t . . . ” Though whatever Q intended to say died on his lips. Dirty or not, should or shouldn’t, what Mr. Bond was doing down there - licking and kissing and getting Q suitably wet - felt insanely good. It also felt wrong. Unnatural. Or rather, forbidden. But even that - even that Q liked. What was he turning into?

Q didn’t have a chance to idle in wondering. Mr. Bond had stopped and was staring at him, his eyes dark and glittering. His mouth was swollen and glistening. “Another time,” he said, “and I’ll eat you out properly. That’s all I’ll do. I’ll fuck you with my tongue until you’re sobbing from it.” Q’s cock - erect again - jumped at the proclamation. “But for now - ”

It was easier to take Mr. Bond’s finger the second time, but it still hurt. Again, Q's breathing stuttered and his chest tightened uncomfortably. He was on the verge of hyperventilating when Mr. Bond began to suckle his balls. Simultaneously, the finger in his arse- just the tip of it - thrust in and out. Pain and pleasure commingled, and Q’s arousal soared.

“Oh,” Q sighed.

“Yes,” was Mr. Bond’s response. His finger curled in a different angle - and that was what had been off when Q attempted it himself earlier. It wasn’t off now. It was on, exactly on it, whatever it was Mr. Bond was prodding, tapping at, rubbing. He was rubbing it and it was, it was - 

“Fuck,” Q gasped, his toes curling into the sheets. “That’s - oh god - that’s - ” 

“Your prostate,” Mr. Bond provided, kissing Q on the thigh. “Good, yeah?”

Yes, yes, fuck yes. It was better than good. It was electrifying. And the second finger - he hadn’t even been aware that it had joined the first - was even better. Two’s a party and three’s a - should’ve been crowded. The third did add a cramped sensation, but for the life of Q he couldn’t figure the why of what should be awful about the experience. That it wasn’t at all. Not now. Even the squelching sound of Mr. Bond’s fingers thrusting in and out of him turned Q’s stomach in an appealing way. 

He was close. Despite Mr. Bond’s attempts to prolong Q’s pleasure, staving off when the quivering that foretold Q’s orgasm began, his climax was inevitable. It hit like an avalanche. A great crashing wave of sensation that seemed to have no end. Mr. Bond’s three fingers curled and prodded and rubbed, and Q came and came and came.

“Dear god,” Q said afterward, blinking at the blurred image of the ceiling. His glasses had fogged up terribly.

“Indeed,” Mr. Bond agreed. And Q would have offered to return the favor, but a glance in the man’s direction noted that he was just as spent. He had brought himself off, probably by rutting against the sheets. He did that when he pleasured Q. As if he had no more control of his inhibitions while watching and handling Q than Q did under his hands and mouth. Tit for tat then. It made Q feel unusually bold.

Later, that was what Q would blame when, after Mr. Bond had slipped another sixty pounds in his back pocket, he dared whisper in his ear, “Take me with you.”

The man went rigid. He pushed Q away. “I can’t,” he said, not bothering to lower his voice. He shoved on his trousers, angrily buttoned up his shirt. Then, sparing no more than a curt nod at Q, he left without another word.

_

 

A week passed, then two. The feeding continued. Three healthy meals a day with leftovers to share with Jonny. His assignments remained almost prudish. A massage here and there, a spanking if the client requested it. But Mr. Bond didn’t return.

He didn't return.


	6. Chapter 6

He should have fucked the boy that first night. Hard and fast and with minimal preparation, only as much as was necessary not to break him. He should have resisted. Those haunted eyes, in a perpetual state of fear - even now. Bond’s little comforts distracted it. Temporarily replaced the fear with delight or awe or what could even be called happiness. The way they lit up. Twisted Bond's insides. Made him want to give and give and protect and soothe and hold. And it had all been due to his diversion, his doing. This mess of emotions. He should have stayed on course, ignored the temptation of righting all the wrongs that had made the boy - that beautiful, delicate, sweet boy - believe in what he thought he was. Ugly instead of breathtaking. Weak instead of resilient. An abomination instead of wondrous. He was wondrous. A miracle.

Bond wanted him. Every day, every minute, every second. His scent, his touch, the awkward, high-pitched giggle he squawked when a tickle surprised it out of him. How it always embarrassed him after. That, too - the way he embarrassed so easily. Charmed so effortlessly. Blind to it all, including Bond.

Q didn’t know him. Not all of him. Only the parts that were mere leftovers, the untainted bits, like shrapnel from an exploded bomb. Q knew only the pieces that survived the explosion, not the rest that was destroyed by it. His fury. His violence. The ease with which he could kill. His storytelling to Q made them like myths, but to hear them compared little to the experience of it. The same hands that handled Q’s delicate wrists like fine china could break them in a whisper. Snap and go.

And he didn’t know how death followed Bond, the trail of bodies he left in his wake. Because Q wasn’t the first. Not even the second.

_

 

The boy was not unlike Q with his history: bullied, abused, and swindled to serve Peter. He was also thin, fragile-looking, and Bond’s mind was made instantly the very moment Bond first laid his eyes on him, and three consecutive nights later - that was all it took - Bond settled the boy’s debt and paid Peter a lump sum to have him exclusively. It wasn’t enough. Peter required security, a promise - that Bond return as a regular. Consider it like an interest on a loan, Peter had said, or else he would be at a financial loss to let the boy go just like that. Fine. Bond agreed.

It was all right, at first. Not exactly the happily ever after that childhood fairytales promised, but Bond was content. Except the boy didn’t seem to be. He was restless - and cagey, as Bond soon discovered. Petulant in way Q wasn't when he didn’t get his way. Manipulative in disagreements. And disobedient. Reckless. 

Bond gave no secrets away except the most important one: that he was a wanted man. Keep the doors locked. The alarm turned on. Windows should be always shaded - yes, even on a nice, sunny day. They argued over it. Silly, the boy called him. Overprotective. He had gotten by just fine in life before Bond and he knew how to take of care of himself, thank you very much.

But, of course, he got careless, and after an ambush from which even the panic room couldn’t shelter him, Bond shuttled the boy to his own flat. The distance, Bond thought, would make the difference. He wired security cameras to the ceiling, placed a bug in every room, planted a tracker in the boy’s only pair of trainers.

None of it mattered. They easily figured what the boy meant to Bond. Small, defenseless, and preoccupied by a game on his cell phone, the boy was snatched from a deserted Tube station at just past two in the morning. He was an idiot for being there. Take a taxi, Bond had begged, when the boy had called him from outside of the club to check in. Yes, yes, he promised, meanwhile intent on doing the opposite.

They used him as bait. They vowed not to hurt him if Bond gave them what they wanted. Bond didn’t believe them, but gave it to them anyway. As expected, they killed the boy. Gouged out his insides as Bond watched from several feet away - he had been so close to saving him, so very, very close.

_

 

And then there was Vesper.

_

 

At week three, like an addict no longer able to withstand the repercussions of withdrawal, Bond’s willpower broke and he found himself back at the brothel, sitting on the bed waiting for Q.

It was immediately apparent that the boy wasn’t expecting to see him. He visibly startled, then hovered by the door looking uncertain. It reminded Bond of their first night together when fear dominated the boy’s every feature, each nervous twitch his body couldn’t seem to help give away. But there was more there. Anger in the set of his jaw. Hurt twisting his mouth. Bond’s stomach sank.

“Oh, it’s you,” the boy said, surprising Bond by speaking first. He continued to catch Bond off guard when next he shucked of his t-shirt and wiggled out of his jeans. Naked, he marched to the bed determinedly not making eye contact with Bond. The flush that was spreading steadily from his neck down to his chest was the only indicator that the boy felt any semblance of modesty. 

He laid on his stomach. “Let’s get on with it then,” he said. “You don’t have to get me ready. I mean - I already am. You don’t have to do anything.” In a softer voice, he added, “I don’t want you to.”

“Q,” Bond tried, touching Q’s shoulder. The boy flinched.

Right. He deserved this. He had also prepared for it. From his shirt pocket he took out a small notepad and ripped away a blank page. On it he wrote: _I’m sorry._

He placed the note by Q’s face so that he had no choice but to see it. After a beat, Q said, “I accept your apology.” It didn’t sound a bit sincere. Of course, he was going to make Bond work for it. And Bond should.

On yet another blank page he wrote: _I would if I could._

On the next: _But you're safer here._

And the one that followed, that made Q finally sit up and face Bond: _Please believe me._

“Tell me,” Q whispered, resolve broken and tears in his eyes. He had drawn the sheets around him and his tiny, trembling body was drowning in them.

Bond did tell him. The bits that mattered. In short hand and words that included: _cared, lies, tortured, and dead_.

Q wrote back: _Why didn’t you just say so?_

“I don’t know,” Bond answered, cupping his face and stroking his cheeks. The truth was he had been delaying it, hoping it would be unnecessary. That they could just continue as is - an hour or several a week with a generous side tip to Peter to keep him quiet. For so long as Bond carried on as if this was just a matter of business and fucking, Q would be safe. It wasn’t ideal. Often it wasn't even pleasant. After all, he knew what Q had to do while in Peter’s custody. But here he could stay a no name whore undetected and invisible to Bond’s enemies.

That is, until Bond supplied him with enough money to run. That was the plan. Q could start over, put all of this and his past behind him. And Bond would resist the temptation to continue their affair. He would have to. He had to leave Q alone if Q was to have any chance at all at a better life.

But not just yet. Even if he could afford it. Giving away the money was the easiest part. Letting Q go - 

“Do you understand?” Bond asked aloud.

Silently: _Do you forgive me?_

Q nodded and into Bond’s outstretched arms he went. For the rest of the hour, Bond held him.


	7. Chapter 7

Blood. There was blood pouring out of his throat and dripping down inside, choking him. He sputtered and clutched at it, desperate to stem the flow. Dimly, he registered that there was no pain. Just warmth coating his pipes, drowning his every attempt for air. His mouth gaped open, but it was no use. He couldn’t breathe. He was suffocating. Dying. His hand slipped from his throat, limp. His eyes fluttered closed. 

Then opened. Q’s hand flew to his throat. He gulped in a lungful of air and held it until his chest strained from the effort. Slowly, he breathed out. It was happening again. The nightmare had played on a loop, as if stuck on repeat like a scratched record, each night after he ran away. It stopped after he told Mr. Bond about what he did to Geoffrey, his burdened relieved, though only temporarily it seemed. Perhaps if he had told the entire truth . . . 

A hand landed on his chest. Q flinched. From one nightmare to another — he flung out an arm to fend it off and scrambled under his pillow for the tiny screwdriver he slept with. Whoever had snuck into his and Jonny’s room was going to learn quickly that Peter’s no freebie rule extended to customers.

The man was fast, faster than Q, and stronger. Before Q could get a proper grip on the screwdriver, he had Q pinned to the bed and Q could do no more than flail under him like a trapped bug.

“Hey, hey. Take it easy.” The voice was familiar. Comforting. Q stilled. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Mr. Bond’s face, creased with worry, clarified.

“All right?” he asked. At Q’s nod, his hold loosened, but he didn’t release Q entirely and instead shifted him onto his side — the little spoon. Warm breath hit the back of Q’s neck. He remembered now. Mr. Bond had stayed, paid to have the entire night with Q. He was leaving again and expected to be gone a week at most. Long enough a stretch he claimed, that he’d be itching for Q while away. An overnight was the compromise. His hand stroked Q’s hip. “That was quite a dream.”

Q nodded, not yet able to speak. Faintly, he registered that he was trembling.

“You called out his name.”

“What?” Q croaked.

“Geoffrey. And your mum. You kept saying — ‘leave mum alone, leave her alone.’”

A violent shiver erupted from the base of Q’s spine and rattled all the way to his teeth. The words sparked a memory, at four or five years old when he had actually said (screamed) those words. Mum was backed into a corner of the kitchen while Geoffrey hulked over her, an empty beer bottle held above her head as if ready to strike. Q had pleaded for him to stop, his childish voice still cartoonishly high. A useless attempt, so he had thrown himself at Geoffrey’s legs and with his tiny fists pounded where he could reach — legs, buttocks, his groin. The last caused a meaty hand to swing at him and he was cuffed under the chin, the force of it sending him flying across the kitchen and into the edge of the dining table. His head banged hard and his vision blurred. 

“No!” his mother had screamed and attacked Geoffrey. And not since did Q witness another beating or implicit threat, not another “bitch” or “cunt” uttered, not even under the breath. No more awful sounds during the night that had kept Q awake; they had been the worst. But none of it stopped. Mum just became an expert at hiding it all away from Q’s eyes and ears, as Q would learn later after he got bored with routine IT maintenance at the library and picked up hacking. The child welfare records declassified under Q’s fingertips and resolved mysteries, including Geoffrey’s reason for taking custody of Q — benefits checks, the little bit Mum’s life insurance paid out, monthly allowance from a depleted trust that her parents opened for her years ago. Money, in a word. How utterly mundane.

The truth was that he had planned to kill Geoffrey. Before the pig’s vile attempt to rape him, Q had it methodically figured, pulled from details inspired by his fantasies. It was going to be clean, untraceable. But the bastard woke up too soon from the pill and Q panicked. The cleaver was at Geoffrey’s feet. He had dropped it there after using it earlier to threaten Q. And Q had nicked him — that was the truth — but it wasn’t all he had done.

Blood. There had been blood everywhere.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Mr. Bond asked.

Q shook his head. What he wanted was to stop seeing it, to forget it, if only for now. 

Q guided one of Mr. Bond’s hands to a nipple and arched into his touch when he began to stroke it. “Yes,” Q whispered. “Like that.” The other hand Q steered to his arse, between the cheeks, and directed two fingers to stroke him. He gasped when they breached, but not from pain. He was still wet from earlier and they slid in easily, finding the spot that made him writhe wantonly. Over his shoulder Q said, “Will you do it?” In answer, Mr. Bond pressed scorchingly at his prostate. And hours later, edged past overstimulated, Q was still sobbing, “don’t stop, don’t stop.”

_

 

Traffic to the second-hand store was slow-moving, but genial on a Sunday as cars puttered along with no schedule to dictate them. It was unusually sunny, not a cloud staining the sky, no hint of rain. A picture perfect ease pervaded outside and infected the interior of the van in which Q was riding. The anxious knots in his shoulders loosened and he relaxed against the passenger seat. Beside him, Charlie whistled tunelessly. He was good company, kept to his thoughts and didn't pester Q with awkward small talk. Lucked out with that. He could've been stuck with Roger, who liked to gab and was handsy. If there was a bum in vicinity, he was sure to cop a pinch.

The weekly trip to the supermarket and second-hand store was a treat Peter reserved for the high-earners and his lackeys -- the boys tasked with "special errands" and keeping the others on a leash. Burly Joe, Weaselly Pete, and Stealthy Rudy made up the latter. Q fell in with the former, a random hodgepodge determined by which way the wind blew that week, for fortune was a fickle bitch. Death, relocation, a new play thing -- whatever the reason, it meant that a boy favored one week could easily slip to the bottom of the pile by the next. And sayonara to that trip to the market and a taste of life outside the brothel. But that was the least of a boy's worries when the customers stopped coming.

Q had been refusing the trip for weeks, but some change took over him in the night and caused him to wake up feeling that today had to be different. Truth was he was getting antsy, like an itch burned just under the surface of his skin and was begging to be scratched. He hadn't planned this far ahead when he ran off. Or more accurately, all plans went to shit the moment he decided he was going to pick up that cleaver and use it. After that, the priority was to go unseen, go into hiding, become invisible, and Peter had provided the perfect cover.

He mistook Q for an easy mark. Most people did. And Q played that advantage like an ace up his sleeve. The man didn't have a clue that he was being watched that afternoon at the train station, that Q had him sized up to a tee long before Q took that forlorn stroll to a newsstand and drew Peter’s eyes in his direction. Head tucked low and chewing on his lip. The hook and line, and the sinker — a purposeful hike up of his tattered jacket to tease a glimpse at skin — guaranteed the catch. 

It helped that the act wasn't entirely faked. Q's fear had been real, his desperation. He neither had to pretend his inexperience, which was genuinely limited to an awkward hand job here and there. What Q left out was that he had been paid for them. When Q could no longer stand the hunger pangs from days of not eating, a pitiful loiterer in the park was glad to part with the little bit of cash Q charged him. So Q understood what he was getting into, what Q would have to do in exchange for the shelter Peter promised, the food, the comfort of being with "lost boys just like him."

It could've been worse, Q told himself for the umpteenth time. It was getting to be a mantra. But the reminding helped, especially when Q felt trapped and itchy all over for freedom, like now.

The van turned into the parking lot. Q scoped the surroundings. No police in sight, nor any marked cars. Neither were any in the store, where Q breathed a sigh of relief. He was safe for now.

-

Charlie left Q perusing men's shoes to go for another smoke and coffee. Q watched him from where he stood. As predicted, soon as Charlie had the cigarette lit and in his mouth, he pulled the cell phone from his pocket and was soon occupied with a call that had him animatedly waving his free hand around. People were so easy, sometimes easier than machines, entrenched in habits that constantly gave them away. Like Charlie, who next leaned against a column to better settle into his smoke and conversation, as he had done during his previous two cigarette breaks. It was as simple as paying attention, really, and at that point Q estimated he had about nine minutes to accomplish his task — two for Charlie to finish his smoke and five for a gander to the cafe next door to grab a self-serve coffee. 

Swiftly, Q made his way to the used electronics section. He had gotten a quick glance at the items on display on their initial way in and spotted an old Android phone. It was an ancient relic compared to the current model, CPU certain to be outdated. But it worked, lighting up like a firework in Q's hand after he plugged it into a nearby wall socket. Thank goodness for the spare charger Q had lifted from someone's messenger bag while he idled at the train station before encountering Peter. And thank goodness for synchronicity as that very moment the lone salesperson had her back turned to Q and was busily shelving merchandise. He was also out of view from the cameras, cheap models that were poorly placed, not likely used to catch thieves in the act, but a tactic to scare off attempts at stealing. 

Q wasn't fooled by them, and before his nervously hammering heart could persuade him out of it, Q unplugged the phone and slipped into his pocket. Another glimpse at the salesclerk confirmed that she was still preoccupied with her task, and Charlie was just making his way back, taking his sweet time from the sidewalk to the door. A smug grin was making its way to Q's lips when a rustling to his left startled him. His eyes met a squinting pair. They were fixed on Q, as if calculating. Recognition dawned on the meaty face just as it bloomed in Q's mind. Billy Farley. Billy the Bully, who had knocked into Q that day in the changing room, who had led the chase that ended with Q cowering in an alley and with a scar that reminded him to never forget it. Never, ever forget. Q's mouth went dry. This was it. He was done, come to the end of the road.

But then Billy took a step backward. The color drained from his face and the strange twist of circumstance became even stranger as Billy looked at Q as if he possessed the reason to be afraid of him, not the other way around.

"I won't tell," he said, voice wobbly. "I swear it." Then he ran off just as Charlie reached Q.

Charlie lifted the brown bag in his hand and gestured for Q to reach in. There were two coffees inside. Q muttered a thanks, glad to have something to distract his shaking hands. 

"You know that guy?" Charlie asked casually, but Q knew when he was being tested.

Q nodded. Tell the truth when the truth made the best cover. "Mean bugger from back home," Q said. "Didn't like boys like me." He held out a still shaking hand. "Know what I mean?"

Charlie nodded. His eyes were genuinely sympathetic. He put an arm around Q. "Come on, then."


End file.
